Friday, March 27, 2009

I believe that David Berman, my favorite poet, in his poem New York, New York perfectly captured the essence of the oft-futile art of code rewrites.

A second New York is being builta little west of the old one.Why another, no one asks,just build it, and they do.

The city is still closed offto all but the work crewswho claim it’s a perfect mirror image.

Truthfully, each man works on the replicaof the apartment building he lives in,adding new touches,like cologne dispensers, rock gardens,and doorknobs marked for the grand hotels.

Improvements here and there, done secretlyand off the books. None of the supervisorsnotice or mind. Everyone’s in a wonderful mood,joking, taking walks through the still streetsthat the single reporter allowed inside has described as

“unleavened with remainders of the old city’s complicated past,but giving off some blue perfume from the early years on earth.”

The men grow to love the peaceful town.It becomes more difficult to return home at night,

which sets the wives to worrying.The yellow soups are cold, the sunsets quick.

The men take long breaks on the fire escapes,waving across the quiet spaces to other workersmeditating on their perches.

Until one day…

The sky fills with charred clouds.Toolbelts rattle in the rising wind.

Something is wrong.

A foreman stands in the avenuepointing binoculars at a massive gray markmoving towards us in the eastern sky.